The Birds: 5 poems

The birds are fighting every morning now so there’s a pile of dead ones outside your window. They peck against the glass to try to break in but it doesn’t work out because they are dead.

You’re awake & think, I’ve never really liked birds but maybe you do. I don’t know, I say, but I don’t think so.

Their bodies don’t block the whole window so light still gets through your empty bottles decor. It’s green or yellow or brown but light & now a dead bird.

There are bird feathers between your teeth, naked bodies on the glass. You said I go to sleep most nights sad about something about us & it shouldn’t be that way, since it maybe defeats the purpose. But don’t feel bad or sad or that’s not why I said it.

I’m bird bones & I’m listening to the window almost break.

B E A K

birds eat and
kill inside
are nail ice rows
torches down leading
down lower still